BYRON
His were an adverse age, a sordid land,
Gauging his heart by their own littleness;
Blind guides! the fiery spirit scorned their curb,
And Byron's love and gladness,—such the wise
Of ministrants whom evil times perturb,—
To wrath and melancholy changed their guise.
Yet this was he whose swift imaginings
Engirt fair Liberty from clime to clime,—
From Alp to ocean with an eagle's wings
Pursued her flight, in Harold's lofty rime.
Where the mind's freedom was not, could not be,
That bigot soil he rendered to disdain,
And sought, like Omar in his revelry,
At least the semblance of a joy to gain.
Laughter was at his beck, and wisdom's ruth
Sore-learned from fierce experiences that test
Life's masquerade, the carnival of youth,
The world of man. Then Folly lost her zest,
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